


Mug and Brush

by popfly



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Head Shaving, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-23
Updated: 2016-12-23
Packaged: 2018-09-11 11:52:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8978533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/popfly/pseuds/popfly
Summary: Mack teaches Fitz the fine art of head shaving.





	

**Author's Note:**

> 100% shamelessly self-indulgent shaving!kink fic, dedicated to [sapphirescribe](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sapphirescribe/pseuds/sapphirescribe) and [donnersun](http://archiveofourown.org/users/donnersun/pseuds/donnersun), because they dragged me down the damn FitzMack rabbit hole. Beta'd by [LouLa](http://archiveofourown.org/users/LouLa/pseuds/LouLa), any remaining errors are my own.

It’s become a tradition: beers and XBox. Fitz still tries to act like he doesn’t rely on it, but he does. He relies on the strangely soothing sounds of virtual machine gun fire and flash bangs, Mack’s presence solid and firm and comforting. Now and then Hunter joins them, or one of the Koenigs, but it’s jarring; Fitz likes Hunter but he’s a bit of a flailer, and he’s terrible at Call of Duty, and the Koenigs talk too much. Instead of Mack’s low growls Fitz gets Hunter’s increasingly agitated shouting and the Koenigs’ inane chatter.

Fitz himself rarely plays. He likes to tuck into a corner of the couch with a throw pillow hugged to his stomach and watch. Mack likes the extra set of eyes. They make a good team.

“Camper,” Fitz says, as Mack guides his character through a ravine. “Up the … “

“Ridge, got him.” There’s a volley of gunfire and Mack’s biceps tense as he mashes buttons. “Thanks, Turbo.”

It’s a silly thing, but Fitz likes to feel useful. Needs it, especially now. Especially today. It’s been a particularly bad week, Fitz’s brain is more jumbled than usual. Mack had gotten injured a few days prior. Nothing too serious, a garage accident that had him in medbay for stitches, but Fitz hadn’t been there and hearing Mack was hurt - well.

Brain. Jumbled.

For the second time in as many minutes, Mack reaches up and scratches at the back of his head. It’s the closest Mack ever gets to fidgeting, and it’s making Fitz feel jittery. It’s not nearly as bad as Hunter’s flailing, but with Fitz already feeling extra frayed around the edges it’s close.

When Mack reaches up again, Fitz leans forward, squashing the pillow between his chest and his knees, and peers at Mack’s face.

“What’s up with you?”

Mack glances over, hand still lifted to his head. Fitz waves his good hand in the air, gesturing towards him. It makes Fitz warm in the stomach when Mack doesn’t ask him to explain. Like always, he gets what Fitz is saying without Fitz having to say much at all.

“I missed a spot shaving.”

Now Fitz is focused on it, he can hear it. The rasp of stubble against Mack’s fingers. He expects it to be a grating sound, but it starts up a weird buzzing under his skin that isn’t irritating at all. It’s almost pleasant.

“I can’t lift my good arm as high as I need to right now because of the stitches.” Mack lets his hand fall to his lap, then wiggles the fingers. “Apparently I’m not very good at shaving with this one.”

The grin he slants at Fitz is rueful, warm. The buzzing under Fitz’s skin intensifies. It’s another thing that Mack understands now. Fitz presses the thumb of his right hand into the palm of his left.

“Hey, Turbo, do you think you could help?”

“Of course,” Fitz says, because he always wants to help Mack. Then, “Wait, help with what?”

Mack’s grin spreads wider across his face. He’s such an intimidating man, he’s so big and imposing, when he smiles his real smile it lights him up. Fitz feels lit up, too. “Shaving my head.”

“What? No. I can’t. That’s.” Holding a razor to Mack’s head? There’s no way. He presses his thumb harder, feels the pulse of blood through his bad hand. He can barely shave his own face, and if he hurt Mack - he feels the sudden need to push up from the couch and leave, to go hide away somewhere.

“Hey, hey. Relax. It was just a thought.”

“No, I.” Fitz squeezes his eyes closed, takes a deep breath. “What if I … “ He mimes dragging a razor over his head, twists his wrist to mimic gouging his scalp then splays his fingers to indicate the - the - To show that Mack would - 

Mack reaches out and touches his fingers to the back of Fitz’s hand, presses down until it’s resting in Fitz’s lap. He has callouses that scrape a little on Fitz’s skin. The catch and drag of them gives Fitz something to focus on that isn’t his own terror.

“You know, I nick myself all the time,” Mack says, and takes his hand back. Fitz almost reaches out to grab it with his own. “You wouldn’t hurt me.”

Mack’s eyes are so warm and steady and trusting, and Fitz is always so worried that he’ll do something to change that. The way the rest of the team looks at him - it would kill him if Mack ever looked at him like that.

“It’s okay. I can always ask Hunter or someone else.” Mack quirks a corner of his mouth and then reaches for the controller to restart his game.

“No,” Fitz blurts. Somehow the thought of Mack asking Hunter, of Hunter touching Mack’s skin, is worse than the thought of possibly hurting Mack. “I’ll do it. Just, would you show me?”

“Yeah.” Mack’s smile is curling and pleased. “I’ll walk you through each step. It’s a process.”

-

It _is_ a process. It’s so much more involved than the quick, slapdash way Fitz shaves his own face. There’s a whole toolkit, which makes him feel like he’s in the garage or the lab, just tinkering.

Mack lays everything out on his tiny bathroom counter, naming each item as he sets it down, explaining what it does.

“You work up a lather with this brush in this mug. This is the aftershave. You with me?”

“I know what aftershave is, Mack.”

“Well, how would I know?” Mack slants him a teasing grin. “You’re always so scruffy.”

Fitz scoffs. It always makes his chest feel light when Mack teases him. He can’t always handle it when others try it, because he’s unsure of their motives.

“I start with a warm towel.” Mack runs the water in the sink until steam rises, soaking a hand towel and then wringing it out. He drapes it over his head, wrapping it around. “It softens everything up, makes it easier to shave.”

He shows Fitz how to whisk the brush in the mug until the shaving cream is foamy, then how to apply it once the towel comes off. Fitz pays close attention to the way Mack grips the brush, the small circular movements he makes. He’s always marveled at how efficient Mack is when he works, each motion economical and purposeful.

“I start with the top of my head,” Mack says, taking his razor out of its case. Fitz is glad it’s not a straight razor, the thought of holding a bare blade to Mack’s skull turns his stomach. This razor is much fancier than the cheap ones Fitz uses on his face, he counts five blades. Mack touches them to the tip of his finger and demonstrates how the razor swivels, then lifts it to the crown of his head.

“Back to front on the top,” he says, accompanying his words with a long, slow drag of the razor through the foam. The rasp of it against Mack’s skin seems overloud, even with the water running in the sink. Steam fogs the bottom of the mirror Mack watches himself in, and the spice of the shaving foam fills Fitz’s nose. His blood is hot as it rushes through his veins.

Mack flicks the razor through the running water after every pass, then starts the process over again. Fitz has never been in one of the bunk bathrooms with another person before. They’re altogether tiny. He’s pressed up against the wall and still too close, the muscles of Mack’s bare arm flexing right in front of Fitz’s face.

Once the top of Mack’s head is smooth and bare and shining damply under the bare bulbs above the sink, he moves on to the sides of his head. The slow strokes are from top to bottom now, crown to nape, slower still when Mack holds his ears forward to shave behind.

When he switches the razor to his non-dominant hand to work on the back of his head Fitz spots the problem straight away.

“You’re holding it differently,” he says. It’s the first time he’s spoken since they started, and his voice croaks. He clears his throat, and then reaches out. “Your thumb,” he says, and takes Mack’s hand to move the digit. “You held it closer in your other hand, better control,” he explains. He finds he can’t look up at Mack’s face, focusing instead on adjusting Mack’s grip on the razor.

“Thanks, Turbo.” Mack’s voice is low and close, and Fitz backs up to let Mack work.

He still misses spots, the razor not moving as smoothly anymore.

“See?” Mack says, when he lowers his hand. Fitz can sense his frustration, knows the weight of it, of not being able to do something so simple that you’ve done a million times before.

“Here,” Fitz says, before he can talk himself out of it, and takes the razor from Mack’s hand. He places the fingers of his bad hand, trembling already, against the smooth, warm skin at the back of Mack’s head. “It’s this bit right here, the ridge between your parietal and occipital bones. Just beneath it.”

The razor feels oddly heavy in Fitz’s hand. He makes sure his grip is perfect and then strokes the blades gently but firmly over the patch of stubble Mack left behind. As soon as the skin is smooth Fitz steps away and drops the razor onto the counter. Mack picks it up and swishes it under the water.

Fitz can see himself in the mirror, red face partially hidden by the breadth of Mack’s shoulders. He tries to school his expression into something normal, then looks away when he fails spectacularly. 

“Thank you,” Mack says, the second time he’s thanked Fitz when all Fitz has done is lurk there and gape like a fish. His backbone goes rigid with sudden determination.

“Next time I’ll do the whole thing,” he says, and nods decisively. Mack’s gaze is steady when Fitz meets it in the mirror.

“Okay,” is all he says, and that’s that.

-

Two days later, standing in the same spot in Mack’s bathroom, Fitz searches for the surety he’d felt before. All he feels now is a sort of jelly-like quivering in his knees and elbows. Mack is lining things up on the counter and Fitz recites their names in his head to try to calm his nerves.

“All good?” Mack asks. He has a towel in his hands and that look on his face that means he knows exactly what is going on in Fitz’s brain. There’s no pity or forced patience. Just Mack’s particular brand of calm and understanding. It soothes something frantic in Fitz, as it always does.

“Yeah, of course,” Fitz says, purposefully nonchalant. As if he spends every day in someone else’s bathroom, being trusted to hold sharp objects to the thin skin covering their cranium.

Mack sits on the closed lid of the toilet and looks up at Fitz. His hands are loose on his thighs and he’s wearing the oil-stained tank he’d been wearing to work in the garage. There’s a smudge of grease on his cheekbone.

Fitz turns the hot water on and sticks his face over the steam to have an excuse for his flush.

With Mack sitting down, his head is level with Fitz’s chin, so Fitz has to watch his hands shaking as he raises them to arrange the towel. He glares at his own knuckles, ignoring the proximity of his body to Mack’s, the way he has to step close between Mack’s legs to reach around and make sure the towel covers everything. He can feel the heat of Mack’s thighs seeping through their jeans to warm Fitz’s own, and that on top of the heat of the terry cloth in his hands makes sweat bead on his forehead.

He presses the inside of his wrist to his hairline, grimaces down at Mack. It’s a trick of the light, Fitz knows, that makes Mack’s eyes twinkle.

“You could lose a layer, Turbo. It’s warm in here.”

Fitz is wearing three, all told, but the thought of stripping off his cardigan with Mack watching is doing funny things to his insides. He does it anyway, because otherwise he might overheat and faint and he’d rather not do that with a razor held to Mack’s head. He turns away to slip the cardigan off, and takes his time folding it and setting it aside. He takes his time whisking the brush in the mug, making sure he gets a good lather, getting his heart rate back to normal before he turns back to Mack.

He rolls up his shirtsleeves, because even without one less layer he feels too warm, and then unwinds the towel from Mack’s head. He hesitates briefly with the brush and mug in hand, but he squares his shoulders and gets to work. It’s easy to repeat the motions he’d watched Mack make, spreading the foam with circular movements, making sure every bit of dark stubble is covered. Getting around the back of Mack’s head is a little tricky, and Fitz’s first attempt to reach brings Mack’s nose right into Fitz’s armpit.

“Sorry, sorry,” he says, and then almost trips over Mack’s feet when he tries to move around him. Mack’s feet, which are bare on the tile. Fitz almost trips again, this time over nothing. He’s never seen Mack’s bare feet before.

“You’re doing fine,” Mack says, amusement in his voice.

With the foam all applied and the mug and brush set aside, Fitz picks up the razor. He takes his place between Mack’s knees and looks down at him.

“You’ll tell me if I hurt you,” Fitz feels compelled to request, because Mack is kind and lovely and exactly the kind of person who would pretend he wasn’t bleeding just to make Fitz feel better.

“Sure I will. But you won’t. I trust you.”

Fitz isn’t sure if that makes him feel better or worse, but it gives him the courage to set the razor against the crown of Mack’s head and drag it forward.

The first few passes he makes he doesn’t press hard enough, and he frets for a moment before he remembers what Mack told him about cleaning spots up with a side stroke at the end. He finds a rhythm after a bit, clearing a swatch of foam and stubble and rinsing the razor, using the fingers of his bad hand to tilt Mack’s head as needed. The repetition eases his mind, makes his hand steadier, but it also allows his focus to wander. He starts to notice things like the different textures of the skin under his hands, the way Mack’s body tenses and relaxes as Fitz moves around him. Fitz has drifted closer as he works, and when he reaches to gently fold Mack’s ear forward to shave behind he can feel Mack’s quickened breath across the thin skin of his wrist.

It is, honestly, the most erotic experience of Fitz’s life. Not just the closeness of their bodies, the feel of Mack under Fitz’s hands, but the intimacy of the trust Mack was placing in him.

Fitz is hyperaware of how tender the cartilage is that he’s holding, how soft the skin. When he moves to the other side and takes the shell of Mack’s ear between his fingers, he can’t help a little stroke of his thumb.

The breath across his wrist stops, reverses direction as Mack sucks air in through his teeth. Fitz goes completely still, terror rushing through him. He’s about to open his mouth, apologize or make an excuse - a stray bit of foam or a muscle spasm, something - when Mack slowly tilts his head.

Fitz looks down, at the slope of Mack’s neck stretched out and gleaming, at Mack’s eyelashes fluttering just slightly against his cheek. It seems like - Mack isn’t - 

Fitz skims his thumb down the taut tendon below Mack’s jawline, and watches breathlessly as a shiver works its way through Mack’s body.

It’s not possible that Mack could be feeling the same way Fitz is about this whole process. That the humid bubble they’re enveloped in contains more than a simple act of grooming, like there’s an electrical charge between them. Fitz has an erection. He’s certain the same cannot be said about Mack.

Only when Fitz glances down at Mack’s lap, he can see his assumption is incorrect.

Mack’s eyes blink open, and Fitz realizes he still has his thumb pressed to Mack’s neck. He can feel Mack’s pulse, racing almost as quickly as Fitz’s own.

“Keep going,” Mack says. His voice is deeper than usual, and Fitz can feel it rumble in his throat.

“With the shaving, or - “ Fitz doesn’t know what. What would happen if he stroked Mack’s neck again? Or over the swell of his pectorals above the neckline of his shirt? Or lower?

“The shaving,” Mack says, and Fitz snatches his hand away, face flaming. Of course. Mack wouldn’t want - It’s probably just a natural reaction - “Turbo.”

Fitz can’t meet Mack’s eyes, he needs to finish up quickly so he can get out of there, he needs to not be throbbingly hard in his jeans - 

“Hey. Hey.” Mack reaches out, reaches up, presses a knuckle under Fitz’s chin. “Can’t start anything else with a head full of shaving foam. That’s all I’m saying. After.”

After. Fitz mouths the word and Mack nods.

“After. Whatever you want.” The corner of Mack’s mouth quirks up. “Didn’t think having my head shaved could be considered foreplay.”

“Fore - ha! Erm. Foreplay? Yes. Well.” Fitz turns to rinse the razor even though he’s already done that. He can scarcely believe the word foreplay just came out of Mack’s mouth, in relation to him and Fitz of all people.

“Never really had this reaction before,” Mack continues, and Fitz flushes hotter. “Then again the only people who’ve ever done this was the old man I went to when I was little, and my mom.”

Somehow, that makes it even better. Although Mack mentioning his mother cools things off a bit. Which helps Fitz keep his hands steady as he turns to continue his work.

The way Mack grins up at him makes Fitz think that was the point.

When it’s time to do the back of Mack’s head, Fitz has him stand up. After all that time of Mack sitting it feels like he’s towering over Fitz. Before Mack turns he touches Fitz’s face with the backs of his fingers, skimming down Fitz’s still-warm cheeks. There’s something promising in Mack’s face that makes Fitz’s stomach flutter. Then Mack is turning and Fitz is presented with the broad expanse of his back, muscles rippling under grey cotton and gleaming skin. Fitz doesn’t let himself get distracted, focusing on keeping the razor pressed close to the contours of Mack’s skull, shaving the spots Mack had missed before.

After that, Mack sits back down so Fitz can clean up the top where his first few weak passes were, and then take care of any leftover foam with another swipe of the warm, damp towel.

The last step is the aftershave, which Fitz pours into his palms before stepping close to Mack. Being between his spread legs now - with the promise of “after,” and the razor tucked safely away, and the spicy scent of the balm pricing his nostrils - feels different. Sexier. Mack must agree, because as soon as Fitz sweeps his aftershave-slick hands over the tops of Mack’s head, Mack’s eyes slip closed and he makes a noise between a hum and a groan.

Fitz works the lotion into Mack’s skin, making sure to get behind his ears, thumbs pressing gently into the hollows, and the back of his head. He’s cradling Mack’s head in his palms when Mack’s eyes blink open. There’s just a sliver of shining brown around dilated pupils, and Fitz leans down before he can think about what he’s doing.

He’s never kissed anyone before. Not romantically, at least. He’s watched plenty of people do it, and he can figure out how it’s supposed to go. Lips on lips, not too terribly difficult. He’s imagined how it would feel - he’s even imagined it with Mack. More frequently than anyone else lately, actually, and in each and every fantasy he’s imagined Mack’s full lips would be soft and plush when Fitz kissed them.

Fitz’s imagination was spot on, yet completely pales in comparison to the reality. The fantasies never included the smell of Mack, of warm skin and spicy aftershave, or the sound of him breathing harshly through his nose and groaning so deep in his chest it reverberates all the way down to Fitz’s toes. The fantasies never included Mack’s hands, big and hot, sliding up Fitz’s sides and around his back, pulling Fitz deeper into the space between his legs.

It occurs to Fitz, as he tilts his head to change the angle of their mouths slanting together, that he never clarified if this was what Mack meant by “after,” and he pulls away sharply.

“Oh god, I’m so sorry,” he pants, because they’d been pressed together long enough for Fitz to be short of breath.

“What for?” Mack sounds just as out of breath of as Fitz is, which is flattering.

“I never checked - I don’t even know if - Is this okay?”

“Okay?” Mack hauls Fitz in closer, until Fitz’s whole front is pressed up against Mack. He can feel - oh. He can feel the hot, hard line of Mack’s erection against his thigh. “I’d say this is more than okay. I told you before, whatever you want.”

Fitz can’t help it, he laughs. It’s nearly a giggle, but he thinks he manages to deepen it enough. Mack tilts his head back, grinning.

“You laughing at me?”

“At this, at - At everything.” His palms are still spread on the back of Mack’s head. He slides them forward so he can thumb at the grease on Mack’s cheekbone. “I just never thought - “

“Me neither, Turbo. But I hoped.”

That sends Fitz reeling. That Mack might have been entertaining some of the same fantasies, thinking about Fitz. Fitz groans, lowering his forehead to Mack’s. Fitz may be inexperienced, but he’s also a very thorough researcher, and the list he could make under the heading “whatever you want” is extensive.

He starts with kissing Mack again, because it went spectacularly well the first time. Mack opens up to him right away, lips parting under Fitz’s. A second later, Fitz feels Mack’s tongue, just the tip of it, tentatively touching the underside of Fitz’s upper lip. It’s like being touched with a live wire, a shock that zips down his spine and through his limbs. He straddles Mack’s thighs and settles onto his lap, wanting to be closer, to get more.

For a while everything is hot and wet, the sounds of their breathing loud in the tiny bathroom, Mack’s low groans rumbling near-constantly. Fitz is mapping the planes of Mack’s back and chest, careful to avoid the bandage over his stitches. He slides a palm over Mack’s very erect nipple, and Mack pulls back with a sharp gasp.

“You know,” he says, nosing at Fitz’s jawline, “I have a bed about ten feet away. If you want.”

“I want,” Fitz says, no hesitation. Wanting is not the part that worries him. It’s the doing he’s afraid he won’t be good at. But he’d been terrified to shave Mack’s head, and it’s currently gleaming smooth and unbloodied, so maybe he’ll be okay. If … “You’ll show me, yeah? What to do, what you like?”

Mack’s eyes are huge and his chest shudders under Fitz’s hands. “God. Yeah. Come here.”

He uses his hands on Fitz’s backside to bring him even closer, which is counterproductive to making it to the bed, but provides better friction for Fitz’s aching erection. After another scorching, tongue-tangling kiss, Mack tips his head back.

“I’m tempted to just lift you and carry you to bed, but maybe you’d rather walk?”

Mack’s strength is certainly hot, but it’s his consideration that makes Fitz’s mouth dry and his heart pound in his chest. He gets to his feet and holds out his hand. Mack takes it, and lets Fitz lead him out of the bathroom.

When they’re next to the bed, Fitz turns and fits his hands to the bulges of Mack’s biceps, looking up through his eyelashes. “I should like to explore the whole ‘lifting me up’ scenario in future,” he says, and Mack’s grin is enough to make Fitz’s knees feel like jelly.

“We can definitely do that. What do you want now, though?”

The options are endless, so numerous Fitz can’t choose one to speak out loud. They all require less clothing, so Fitz lowers his hands and tucks his fingers under the hem of Mack’s tank. He pushes upwards, feeling the ridges of Mack’s abs and a line of coarse hair as he goes, until he’s got the shirt rucked up under Mack’s armpits and nearly a mile of gorgeous bare skin in front of his face.

He scarcely has to duck his head to get his mouth on Mack’s nipples, and for once he’s incredibly grateful for his stature. He’s even more pleased when a flick of his tongue brings a sound out of Mack that nearly liquefies Fitz’s spine.

Mack’s muscles flex under Fitz’s mouth, and there’s a rustle of fabric as he drops his tank to the floor. Then his hands are working the buttons of Fitz’s shirt, as Fitz covers every inch of Mack’s chest with his lips and tongue.

He eventually has to move away to get out of his shirts, which he piles on top of Mack’s on the floor. The sight of his plaid and his faded Radiohead tee shirt on Mack’s floor, nestled together with the oil-stained grey of Mack’s tank, makes Fitz want to purr with satisfaction. He wants to take a photo as proof. Then Mack’s cargo pants join the pile, and he’s a much better sight in a pair of navy blue boxer briefs than a pile of clothes on the floor.

“Your turn,” Mack says, when Fitz has been staring at the frankly ridiculous circumference of Mack’s thighs for several seconds. Fitz fumbles with the button of his jeans, fingers clumsy, but then Mack slides his hands over Fitz’s shoulders, over his bare shoulders, and Fitz pops the button out of its hole and gets the zipper down.

He kicks out of his jeans and reaches out for Mack, drawing him in with arms around his waist, so Fitz can feel all of that skin against his own. It’s so good that Fitz has to close his eyes, mouth open over Mack’s collarbone.

“God, you feel incredible,” Mack says, voice muffled into Fitz’s hair. Fitz can only hum his agreement.

Mack gets onto the bed first, backing up to the wall and stretching out an arm to beckon Fitz forward. He fits himself along Mack’s side, and Mack hooks Fitz’s ankle with his foot to slot their legs together. 

“Show me,” Fitz says, and trails his knuckles down the line of hair leading to the waistband of Mack’s underwear.

“You’re on the right track,” Mack says, one corner of his mouth lifting. “You want me to tell you what I like?”

Fitz nods, fingertips testing the elastic band of Mack’s boxer briefs.

“I like not being in control,” Mack says, quiet but firm. Like he’s expecting pushback. It is a little surprising, Fitz supposes, if you don’t know Mack beyond his physical size. A big, fierce-looking man like Mack, people probably assume a lot of things about him. But Fitz knows Mack, how he prefers video game violence to the real thing, how he’s willing to be the one to lift and reach but hates people thinking that’s all he’s good for. How he likes to tease and get ribbed in return, how gentle and sometimes goofy he is. Fitz knows that Mack is the only one that’s been able to make him feel like he’s still whole, and if he wants Fitz - pale, soft, fumbling Fitz - to take control, then that’s what he’ll get.

“Lie back and take these off,” Fitz says, plucking the underwear’s waistband, and Mack’s eyelids droop as he nods, maneuvering in the small bed until he’s flat on his back and completely naked. He’s impressive all over, and Fitz feels a frisson of his earlier terror creep up his spine. “You’ll tell me if I do something wrong.”

“You won’t,” Mack says. “But I will.”

Fitz wriggles his own underwear off, and then he’s fully naked as well, in a bed with another fully naked person. It’s thrilling, even as it’s a little scary, but the fact that it’s Mack makes it okay. Fitz can handle it. Literally and figuratively.

He straddles Mack’s thighs, because Mack had seemed to enjoy that in the bathroom, and Fitz definitely had. Their erections are so close Fitz can feel the heat of Mack’s, and Fitz shifts until they touch.

“Oh,” he says, the noise punched out of him by the sensation..

“Yeah,” Mack says. “I also like a lot of kissing.”

Fitz collapses onto Mack’s chest, crushing their mouths together and trapping their erections between their stomachs. Fitz circles his hips and moans against Mack’s lips.

The intimate bubble from the bathroom was nothing compared to the one they’ve created here on the bed. Their skin drags damply together, sweat gathering and slipping, their limbs tangling. Fitz’s toes curl against the sides of Mack’s legs, and Mack covers the swell of Fitz’s arse with his hands. As his fingers grip and flex he spreads the cheeks and then presses them together, and the muscles of Fitz’s hole pulse with pleasure. It all pools in Fitz’s groin, hot and urgent, making him move his hips faster.

He’s not going to last long, but it seems like Mack is feeling just as rushed, pushing up against Fitz as he grinds down. Fitz slips a hand along Mack’s throat, stroking across his clavicle and then down his chest. He scrapes the edge of his nail over Mack’s nipple, and Mack jerks his head back, eyes squeezed closed.

“Ah, fuck,” he says, body tensing under Fitz’s. Fitz can feel the orgasm move through Mack, and it’s that - the tremor of Mack’s muscles and the warm wetness spreading where they’re pressed so closely together - that makes Fitz shake with his own climax.

He pushes his mouth against Mack’s as he trembles through an aftershock, his chest swelling with emotion, and hums contentedly when Mack kisses him back. They barely move, muscles relaxing and lips sealed together, until Mack draws back to take a deep breath.

“Wow,” he says, gravel in his voice and something like awe on his face. Fitz wholeheartedly agrees.

They lie there for a while, kissing slowly and grinning at each other in turns, until the stickiness between their bellies makes itself known.

Fitz climbs off Mack, missing the feel of him instantly, and goes into the bathroom for the still-damp towel they’d used before. Standing on the tile, naked and sated, Fitz marvels at the circumstances that led up to this. It’s unbelievable, really, that he should be cleaning the combined ejaculate of himself and Mack off his skin. Spectacular, of course, but unreal.

“Turbo,” Mack calls from the bedroom. “You get lost in there?”

-

They clean up and redress and wander out to the kitchen. Mack makes popcorn, the real kind, on the stove, while Fitz digs for drinks in the fridge. The TV is off, the couches empty, so they settle there with their snacks. Mack boots up the XBox and hands Fitz a controller.

When Hunter wanders in, Fitz lets him play, and tucks himself into his corner to watch. He tosses kernels into his mouth and studies Mack’s profile, and not even Hunter’s loud vulgarity can dampen his good mood. Mack turns to him, grinning, during a respawn. Fitz shuffles closer, until their thighs are pressed together, and grins happily back.

**Author's Note:**

> I like to shout about these boys and other things on [Twitter](http://www.twitter.com/popflies), if you want to come shout at/with me.


End file.
